


Wool Socks

by aliencereal



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Fluff, Gift Giving, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-06 21:44:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3149480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliencereal/pseuds/aliencereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man flirting with Dorian is not a new experience for him.  What he has not had, however, is a man who brings him socks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Wool Socks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3557924) by [rossignol_hatshepsut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rossignol_hatshepsut/pseuds/rossignol_hatshepsut)



> This is shameless fluffy ship trash. No regrets.

A man flirting with Dorian is not a new experience for him. Seduction is familiar; honey-flavored words sit as easy in his ears as they do on his tongue. The eyes that stray to any exposed inch of skin, the sugar-sweet compliments, the excuses found to touch, it's all things Dorian has had before Maxwell.

What he has not had, however, is a man who brings him socks.

Maxwell arrives at Dorian's favorite spot in the library just after sunset. The Inquisitor has been running all over Skyhold today, preparing for tomorrow's trip out to the Fallow Mire. Dorian is, of course, going with him. As much as he loathes the place, the company is excellent. Additionally, while he refuses to examine it, the idea of leaving Maxwell to fend for himself makes Dorian's stomach go sour.

Maxwell's greeting to Solas filters in from downstairs, pushing light, easy jitters into Dorian's chest. He stops reading his book, but doesn't set it down, electing to pretend to be enthralled by it until Maxwell actually seeks out his attention. Best not to seem too eager.

“Dorian?”

Dorian looks at him, taking a split second to admire the cut of his jaw before turning his attention to the actual expression on the Inquisitor's face. He's smiling with the sort of enthusiasm Dorian associates with apprentices who have mastered some new magical concept far beyond their experience level. He has his hands hidden behind his back.

“Well, aren't we in a good mood this evening,” Dorian says, setting down his book. Maxwell only grins harder, to the point where it looks almost painful. Dorian is starting to feel suspicious. Max is looking _far_ too pleased with himself.

“Alright, what is it?” He asks, and Maxwell thrusts a bundle of fabric at him. Unthinkingly, Dorian accepts it. It's a pair of wool socks. The confusion is incredible.

“This is what has you so excited?”

Maxwell laughs then, far more delighted than he has any right to be.

“They're a special present. Try them on,” He urges, and Dorian raises a skeptical eyebrow at him.

“You're serious? Right now?” He asks, and Maxwell nods.

“Just take your blighted boots off, Dorian,” He says with a chuckle, and Dorian indulges him with a melodramatic sigh, unlacing his shoes and sliding one of them off. The sock comes off next, which leaves his toes frightfully cold. Maxwell is still watching him, so Dorian does what's been asked of him and pulls on one of the wool socks.

The enchantment activates, and the sock is suddenly toasty warm. Dorian startles a little and looks up at Maxwell.

“I had Dagna enchant them for you. They stay warm and dry when you're wearing them, even if you're trudging through some vile bog.”

_Oh._

It's a thoughtful gift, not the sort of thing one gives when looking to impress but rather when honestly concerned for someone's wellbeing. Dorian's had potential lovers give him wine and colorful baubles, but nothing like this. This is a gift that requires that Maxwell _know him_ , actually care about what he wants and needs.

“I-- Thank you,” Dorian says, his voice coming out like a breath of air rather than words. He has no idea how to behave in a situation like this, but apparently that was what Maxwell was looking for, because he flushes with delight.

“I knew you'd like them! No more cold toes in the Fallow Mire. My fault you're always in shite places like that, this seemed the least I could do,” He says, with a laugh and a sheepish hand raised to ruffle his own hair. Maker, he's _adorable_. Dorian has to swallow hard on the urge to kiss him right then and there.

He scrambles to find where his wit has run off to.

“Are we certain we can't simply deal with the threat to all Thedas somewhere sunny instead?” Dorian quips, and Maxwell's laughter seems to nourish his very soul.

*

Dorian flees the library five minutes after Maxwell bids him goodnight. He usually stays up far too late drowning in magical history tomes, but he feels like there's electricity under his skin and there's only one outlet he has for that that doesn't involve begging for the Inquisitor's cock.

His hands shake as he locks the door to his bedroom, already hard under his leathers. Maxwell drives him to distraction with mere physical presence, with the playfulness of his smiles and the tight fit of his trousers. But the affection is what makes him _want_ , the gentle hand on his back while he waits for a healing potion to do its work and the little frowns when Dorian is shivering from the cold. It's been so easy to pretend that love might be in the cards; now, though, Dorian isn't sure he's pretending.

Wool socks. Dorian is so hard it hurts and his chest _aches_ , and it is because of Maker-forsaken _wool socks_.

He laughs to himself while he strips everything off, a sad, bitter little noise. It isn't the fucking socks. It's what the socks might mean about Maxwell, it's what Max means to Dorian. It's about Dorian being in love with a man he hasn't even taken to bed.

He sits at the end of the bed, wraps a hand around himself, closes his eyes. It's simple enough to fall into a fantasy.

In another world, perhaps Dorian would have kissed Maxwell in the library. Crowded him up against the bookshelves and sucked dark hickeys onto his neck. Maxwell would moan loud enough for Solas to hear him down below, and Dorian would shove a hand into the Inquisitor's smalls and find him hot and hard and damp at the tip. Dorian would have sucked him off, with those gentle, adoring hands playing with his hair the whole way through. He would have made it so good, so _passionate_ that it would be burned into Maxwell's flesh for the rest of his life.

In this world, however, Dorian jerks himself off quick and rough, biting his lip and coming with the image of Max's delighted smile in his mind.

Something will have to be done about this. The flirting needs to go somewhere or stop, because Dorian fears he will go mad if things continue on the way they have.

But for now, the Fallow Mire awaits Dorian and his new socks in the morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In an attempt to break my writer's block, I wrote a little followup to the original fic. Enjoy!

Dorian kisses Maxwell in the Fallow Mire.

He doesn't plan to, as it's likely the least romantic place in all of Thedas, but it's like not planning to get caught in a rainstorm. Or, in this case, not planning on losing your footing on slick mud in the midst of combat.

Dorian falls into the water in the Fallow Mire.

It is one of the most horrific, terrifying experiences of his life. By the end of it, there are are undead entrails in his robes, mud in his hair and putrid bog sludge in his _mouth_. He throws up in front of the man he fancies. He loses his staff in the water, and the mud claims one of his enchanted rings. Sera laughs at him once he's been safely pried from the muck.

It's followed by the most rotten march back to camp he's ever had, shivering and filthy and tasting bile. He has to fight down frustrated, miserable tears the whole time. When they arrive, Maxwell gives him mint to settle his stomach.

The party waits outside the tent while Dorian strips out of his ruined robes to change into Max's spares. They're too big on him, especially in the shoulders, but it's a thicker fabric than anything Dorian owns. They also share Maxwell's gentle aroma of sweet mint and ink, which is the real reason he agreed to wear them.

The top-most portions of his outfit come off first, because those are the ones he can smell the most strongly, and they are _vile_. It's only after he's naked from the waist up that he goes to take his boots off and makes his discovery.

His socks are both dry and warm, likely the only thing to be properly so in this entire hellpit of a bog.

The absurdity of the situation hits him all at once and he starts laughing. It overwhelms him to the point where he's more wheezing than really laughing, his eyes tearing up and his sides hurting. He'd lost his _staff_ , for fuck's sake, but the socks, the _socks_ are intact.

Maxwell's freckled face pops into view at the mouth of the tent.

"Uh. Dorian..?" He asks. Dorian wipes at his eyes with the mostly-clean handkerchief he'd plucked from their supplies on the way into the tent.

"Send my compliments along to Dagna," Dorian replies, gesturing in the direction of his still-socked feet. Maxwell looks puzzled for a moment before he puts the pieces together and... blushes, of all things.

"Guess it was kinda ridiculous to have her do the socks and not the rest of your outfit," He says sheepishly. It wasn't what Dorian had been thinking at all-- he'd merely been marveling at the fact that Maxwell's little display of kindness had survived being soaked in bog water.

"Astonishingly, that was entirely sincere," Dorian tells him, his voice edging into fond territory. Maxwell perks right up, looking far too pleased with this development.

"You are, however, forbidden from smiling like that while my smallclothes are soaked in something indescribable."

Maxwell laughs, and it's a soft lick of warmth up Dorian's spine.

"You may want to vacate the tent, unless you're interested in discovering what horrible things have found their way into my unmentionables," Dorian advises. The he reaction he gets is _glorious_. In spite of his flushed cheeks, Maxwell's smile widens, making electricity crackle in Dorian's stomach.

"And, ah. What if I were interested in being one of those horrible things?" He says, stepping forward into Dorian's personal space. It makes his insides flutter.

"Did our dear Inquisitor just compare himself to bog slime?" Dorian asks, and Max cocks an eyebrow.

"We do seem to have similar taste in men," He quips, and Dorian takes his cue. 

Dorian kisses Maxwell for the first time in a tent in the Fallow Mire, with mud in his hair and Sera almost within arms reach. It isn't exactly ideal.

He doesn't regret it in the slightest.


End file.
